Four Times Sherlock Made Someone Cry and One Time He Cried
by Queerasil
Summary: Pretty much what it says on the tin. Four times Sherlock made someone cry and one time he cried.


Five Times Sherlock Made Someone Cry and the One Time Sherlock Cried

…

i.

In retrospect, letting Sherlock in the same room as a traumatized child was probably not a good idea.

"So, what did the man who shot your mother look like?"

The child burst into tears. Sherlock didn't look very surprised.

"This happens a lot, doesn't it?" John asks, wearily, as Lestrade rushes forward to comfort the crying child.

"Freak," Sally spits.

Lestrade hugs the child, giving Sherlock a menacing glare as he reassures the child that everything is going to be alright.

Sherlock strolls out of the room without another word.

ii.

Less than a week later, Mrs. Hudson bursts into tears.

John just rubs his temples and sighs. "Why did you have to say that?"

"Say what?" Sherlock was pretending to be clueless, as if he didn't know.

"_That_."

Sherlock sighs, nodding. "Ah, _that_. Yes, now I can see how that might have been disturbing."

John doesn't even try. "Go apologize."

"Why?"

"Because that's what people do." John catches himself a second too late. He hopes Sherlock doesn't notice that John just unintentionally echoed the words of his criminal rival. John swallows thickly. "You know what I mean."

Sherlock nods, and without another word he turns and struts up the stairs after Mrs. H.

iii.

Irene Adler would be lying if she said she wasn't attracted to Sherlock Holmes.

How could she not be? That magnificent brain, those sharp eyes, those soft lips. He was a dream. (Or rather, a nightmare, considering what he did to her.)

_I won't even last six-months._

She cries after he defeats her. 'Human error,' she mocks at herself.

_I am SHER-locked._

The terrorist cell seems like a welcome relief.

She texts him, closes her eyes, and allows a tear to fall from her eye once more.

_Goodbye, Mr. Holmes._

Then she hears her familiar sigh and knows she's saved.

iv.

After the Fall, John feels nothing.

"He's dead, John." Everyone tells him, but he won't listen. He _can't_ listen.

John sits in front of the telly, watching as Sherlock's reputation is destroyed, bit by bit. John isn't angry. John isn't anything.

John doesn't go back to Baker Street. He can't walk those halls without hearing Sherlock's violin playing echoing around him. He remembers when Sherlock used to play violin in the middle of the night; his music lulled John to sleep, and helped fill the hole the nightmares tore out.

John wants to cry, but he can't. He feels nothing, and it burns.

_I will burn the heart out of you. _

John feels nothing. That's what alarms him the most.

Finally, the dam breaks and John cries. He's walking along a back alley when he finds a discarded spray paint can lying about. John looks at the alley wall and has the best idea he's had in ages.

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes, _he paints. It's John's greatest masterpiece, his magnum opus. He wishes Sherlock could see it.

As the tears stream down John's face, he feels again.

'I believe in Sherlock Holmes, even if no one else does.'

v.

_We can't all dance._

Sherlock remembers, earlier that week, teaching John to dance. How they glided around the room to the waltz music, how John has smiled, how Sherlock had felt like his old again for the time since he got back.

_There are limits._

_Yes, there are. _

Sherlock leaves the wedding early.

_Who leaves a wedding early?_

Sherlock walks to the street and hails a cab. He balances his phone in his hand, considering sending a text to his brother. He decides against it, knowing Mycroft will have only the old motto to say.

_Caring is not an advantage. _

He finds Raz dealing coke in the bathroom of a sleazy bar. Sherlock finds the whole set up horribly unsanitary, _but damn does he need a hit_.

He holds the needle in his hand, knowing what's about to come.

Sherlock isn't angry, or sad, or desperate, or excited. He feels empty. There is nothing inside his head except the _want_ and the _need_ to feel something again.

The drug takes its toll, and Sherlock draws a breath of relief as the rush comes flooding through him. He feels as though a cold bucket of water has been poured on his head, quenching a ravaging fever.

Sherlock cries, grateful for the relief. Grateful for John, grateful for his friends, grateful to the drugs, and grateful to be alive again.

**Note:**

**I'm afraid this came out a bit clichéd, but whatever. Written for the LWS Trope Bingo prompt 'Unrequited love' because obviously a certain consulting detective has feelings for a certain blogger, *nudges you* get it?**


End file.
